


Enough

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Mild Blood, Other, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 00:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13558587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: Iorveth trusts you enough to help him in the aftermath of losing his right eye.





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> tw for blood, violence  
> \---  
> I don't know much about Iorveth, but certain lines in this fic stuck in my head and seemed appropriate for his character. If I have any more inspiration, I'll write more.
> 
> **edit: did some heavy editing, rewrote some bits. feel a lot better abt this now

Dark red blood drips from the elf’s chin and stains his moss green collar. He does well to hide the pain, as a commander should, and you tighten your grip on the damp cloth you’d fashioned from some fallen soldier’s tunic. You can only imagine the trauma he's suffering, or witholding from you.

Iorveth’s one good eye flicks to your paralyzed form and he snarls, none too kindly, “Well, don’t just stand there! I’ll bleed to death any minute now.” 

“Are you okay with this?” you ask, recalling dim memories of Iorveth being touch-aversive and overtly wary of intimate contact. Even now, the tautness in his body suggests he’s not entirely comforted by this situation; Iorveth tracks your movement with his eye. 

“I can’t do this by myself, and I trust you,” is all Iorveth has to offer.

You kneel in front of him. “Tell me if it hurts too much.”

“I’ve had worse.” He then adds, “Plenty worse.”

“Worse injuries than losing an eye?” you ask. Your makeshift towel quickly adopts the crimson color, but it seems to be doing its job. Once most of the grime and blood is gone, you can see how the wounds carves haphazardly along his skin, inflicted out of anger and hatred. You can only assume it was an insult against his race, his identity.

Out of the corner of your vision, you see Iorveth’s nails dig into his trousers.

“Are you in pain? Do you--”

“I’m fine,” he snaps. “You worry too much. Just focus.”

You flush angrily, but keep your hands steady. “Iorveth, I don’t appreciate that tone. Here I am, trying to help you--”

"--and I appreciate the gesture. But tell me, if I don't want to be nice or soft-spoken or anything remotely besides myself," Iorveth challenges, "What are you going to do about it?"

You say nothing for a while, instead flicking the towel to the side and decorating the surrounding ferns with blood spatter. It fits the setting: war-trodden forests, everglades with blood-soaked soil, the home, honor, and deathbeds of the Scoia'tael. 

"Nothing," you say at last. Raising your eyes, you are surprised to see Iorveth studying you silently, intensely.

Iorveth is a difficult man to like; it’s even harder to understand him. He’s an exceptional fighter and leader, so he demands a sort of charisma. The question of how, with that impossibly hostile personality, haunts you. But somehow, someway,

Iorveth trusts you. Another wondrous thought: Does this give him permission to be as scathing and blunt as he can?

“Nothing," you say again. "Because what else can I do?"

The question catches him off guard.

“You have to ask?” Iorveth asks in disbelief and gestures to his face. “It would be laughably easy to dig your nail in my eye socket or drive a knife between my ribs. Spit on my wounds, infect them, leave me to suffer fevers and sickness. Abandon my body here, and preach the news about my death.”

You force the disgust to not show on your face. “I could never. And I won’t."

“But you won’t,” he agrees, “because you are simply too kind.”

“No, Iorveth.”

“Then why?”

“I couldn’t betray your trust.”

“What if someone else was in my stead? An adulterer, a deserter, a murderer?" His fingers twitch. "I could slit their throat in an instant.”

“It’s different for you. You wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of a person because you’re used to the idea.” You drop your gaze, and set the towel aside. "Stay. Your wounds need to be bandaged."

Then Iorveth grabs your wrist before you can pull away. The grip demands your attention; you think he’ll berate you or offer another withering remark, as Iorveth usually does with company, and brace yourself. Instead, he asks, “How does it look? Have I been maimed beyond repair?”

There's jest in his voice, mirth that doesn't deserve to be there.

You've had your share of treating wounds and scars in wartime, and with anyone else, you’d be tempted to sweeten reality. Iorveth is too cunning to see past your half-truths. You admit, “There's a great deal of damage. Most of the cuts are superficial. But you need to be extremely careful with the ones around your eye. It will heal, then bleed, heal again... it will take time. You'll have a scar, and children will stare."

"Children will always stare."

Iorveth slowly releases your wrist, though his hand lingers on yours for a moment longer.

Now liberated, you stand and move to grab gauze from your knapsack. Iorveth gently grazes the right side of his face, ghosting over the deep cuts that litter his cheeks, forehead, and then the destroyed eye. He winces, then examines his reddened fingertips. Finally, finally all the fight leaves his body and he slumps forward.

“Iorveth?”

“I’m okay,” he says tiredly. “But it’s been a long fucking day.”

The slow, cautious process of bandaging his injuries begins.

You gently press your hand against his hurt cheek, smoothing out the wrapping, and Iorveth turns and brushes his nose and lips against your skin. Seeking comfort, or reassurance, or forgiveness. The elf seems lost in thought, lacking his trademark belligerence. "I'm a terrible patient, aren't I?" he asks softly.

"Yes," you answer, smiling briefly, and sit back on your haunches. "But a patient's a patient. I'm in no position to refuse."

Your gaze drops down to the delicate curve of his neck, decorated with a ivy-like tattoo. Part of you longs to study the ink further, trace it under your hands, but common sense suggests that Iorveth wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. It is too, too easy to mistake his apathy for calm.

Iorveth's dark gaze follows your eyes, as you search his face for anything but indifference. You see blood start to soak through the gauze; in a few hours, his wounds will need to be redressed and bandaged again. The presence of a wound, even one as severe as this, will fail ot affect Iorveth's profession and tendacy to jump headfirst into fights.

“Call me kind, or call me whatever you like, Iorveth,” you murmur, “but I hope you killed whoever did this to you.”

The Scoia'tael commander shakes his head slowly. He sounds exhausted. “You do not deserve such savage thoughts. Banish them from your mind. Let me take them."

“Let me help you. I’m stronger than you think.”

“I have no doubt about that. And you _have_ helped me. You’ve enough kindness for the two of us,” Iorveth says, closing his eye. “And I will have enough violence.”


End file.
